Love Songs
by ice-evanesco
Summary: Love Songs is a series of one-shots, exploring different relationships within the Sherlock-verse. Pairings can and will vary. Readers are more than welcome to drop a suggestion for pairing/song. Chapter 2: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
1. Never Gonna Leave This Bed

**Title: **Love Songs**  
**

**Disclaimer: **The usual. Sherlock belongs to BBC and ACD, I do not profit except for having lots of fun writing it.

**Pairings: **Mycroft/John

**Word Count: **2064

**Rating: **T (later possible M content)**  
**

**Warnings: **None, for this chapter**  
**

**Summary: **Love Songs is a series of one-shots depicting the relationships between different Sherlock characters and pairings. Each one-shot is based on a song. **  
**

**Author's Notes: **This one-shot is based on the song Never Gonna Leave This Bed, by Maroon 5. This is specially dedicated to NeueHaasGrotesk, who is my writing-partner-in-crime and who loves Mycroft/John and anything with angst. Since Love Songs is based on music, feel free to drop a review suggesting songs that you feel might work with any pairing, and I might write one based on your suggestions.  
**  
**

* * *

"Where. Have. You. **BEEN**?"

Mycroft Holmes came to an abrupt stop at his doorstep as the door flew open and a short blonde man bellowed at him. Mycroft's grey eyes widened, at the unpleasant shock that he had received.

John glared at the man before him; his fists clenched tightly, posture rigid. The doctor was gone; this was the soldier on the warpath. The silence stretched between them, brittle, tense.

"I was at work, John." Mycroft finally replied, settling for a short version that wouldn't take half the night to explain. He would tell John though, as much as he could, if only he could get out of the damnable cold and into that inviting warmth that John was blocking him from enjoying. He ached, badly, the long flight had done nothing to help his stiffness, and neither did hours of long meetings and discussions.

"Work! You **VANISHED** for an entire **MONTH**." John growled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, his default expression for 'I don't quite understand your behavior, but I'll tolerate it for now', and slipped past John, briefcase in one hand, and a small luggage in the other. "Yes, that's usually what work entails." He said coolly, as he passed his lover, not noticing John's anger in his exhaustion. "No need to resort to hysterics."

"Get out." John said shortly.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft turned, a frown creasing his forehead slightly.

"Get out." John growled. His blue eyes were bright in anger.

"You cannot be seriously attempting to evict me from my own property, John." Mycroft said, setting down his briefcase and luggage, taking out his phone to send a message to Anthea, before turning it off and putting it onto the mantelpiece.

"Watch me. This isn't an attempt." John grabbed Mycroft by the lapel, and dragged him towards the door, shoving him out, and slamming the door with a sharp click.

"J- What?" Mycroft was rarely at a loss for words, especially those of the cutting, searing kind, but he spluttered at the door for half a minute, completely nonplussed. Was this a miscalculation of some sort? What exactly had he done that was so reprehensible? He stood with a little frown, playing and replaying the last hour in his head, analyzing every little detail, leaning against the door.

* * *

He had left the airport, surrounded by his security detail, pleased with himself at a job well done. He thought about John, his John, John-the-doctor-soldier, mused over his lover as he walked towards the car. His sandy blonde hair (sometimes a brilliant gold in the sunset that filtered into their living room in the evenings when they cooked together), his blue eyes (there was a slight asymmetry between the two eyes, one slightly greener than the other, not enough to be heterochromia, but noticeable when Mycroft was curled up with him, sharing their breaths, drowning in each other's warmth), his height (always a reason for Mycroft to help in the kitchen, leaning against his John as he reached for something on the top shelf- oddly almost everything essential to daily use was on the top shelf whenever Mycroft did the shopping), his smile (there had been a slight bitter curve that Mycroft had slowly erased over the years, and was now filled with a warm affection)… everything was slowly pondered and relished.

Mycroft had found himself stopping at a jewelers that evening, on impulse (he rarely ever went by impulse any more, except with John), and looking at the engagement rings. He had found a pair that he liked, and reserved them, not having money on him that wasn't in foreign currency. He had been in a rush to return, and neglected to change his currency back to pounds.

Then, pleased and very tired, he had gotten back into the car, trying not to doze off despite jet lag and over four days of sleeplessness. Watching the scenery pass, he relished the sight of London again, glad to be home, watching people walk past with a bag of steaming hot fish and chips in their hand, and found himself craving food. So he had reached for his phone, and called for take-away, arranged for it to arrive half an hour after he reached home, so he had time to shower and be in John's company for a little while before he refueled himself. Chinese, Shrimp dumpling noodles for John, and a fried rice for himself with a side of sweet and sour pork.

Then he had arrived home.

Then he had been pushed out, back into the cold. No John. No food, no engagement rings, nothing. He buried his face in his hands for a moment, and decided to go for a walk.

He ended up in Hyde Park, a short distance from his house, and sat on a bench, shivering slightly in the cold. He slumped down, his head tilted back as he let out a sigh that fogged the air before him. His hand ran through his hair, tousling perfectly coiffed brown locks, and tugged slightly. He had never completely outgrown his childhood habit of tugging his hair under stress, and it manifested now, as he stared into the ink-blackness of the swan pond.

* * *

John clenched his fists, taking deep breaths, storming to the couch and sitting down. He resolved to never open that door until Mycroft apologized for keeping him out of the loop. His leg gave a faint twinge, but he ignored it. The pain had returned full-force in the month when Mycroft was away, and had given him so much trouble that even walking was getting challenging.

He had no idea how long he sat there, just fuming, angry, staring at the photo on the wall of them together in Jamaica. Mycroft was there for a conference, and had somehow pulled strings to allow John to follow him. After that, the elder Holmes had extended their stay for a week after the conference. They lived in a villa, and just enjoyed their time together. He willed the people to stop smiling – just stop smiling damn it – but Mycroft still had his arm around John, and his lips were still in that smirk that said he knew everything, his usually cold grey eyes warm and happy, and John was still laughing, holding up a tiny fish that he had caught.

His throat closed up, and John looked down, at his trembling hands.

The door bell rang, and John stood, suddenly sick of being angry, sick of this stupid self-imposed separation. He limped to the door, and opened it, expecting Mycroft, even an angry Mycroft was fine, or a cold, closed off Mycroft. A tall gangly Chinese teen stood there instead. "Hey, I'm here to deliver the take-out?"

"Take-out?" John stared blankly.

"Yeah. Shrimp dumpling noodles, and fried rice with sweet and sour pork, ordered by a Mr. Holmes." The teen read off the receipt.

"Oh – Yes, you're at the right place." He took the food, and added, "Let me get my wallet –"

"It's been paid for." The teen smiled, and left. John stood for a moment, then looked out the door, expecting, for a moment, that Mycroft would be outside, maybe sulking in a corner like Sherlock would be, and smoking a cigarette. His absence was conspicuous.

John swallowed, his throat tight again, holding the food in one hand, feeling even more lonely than the entire month put together and distilled. He wanted so badly in that moment to be curled up on their couch together, a blanket over them, talking about nothing of importance and everything of meaning. The food packets would be precariously balanced upon their knees, both of them eating with one hand, because the other was entrapped, holding each other tight.

He had let his pride and hurt get in the way of that, cornering his lover even before he had stepped in, and driving him off. He thought about how run-down Mycroft had looked, his shoulders hunched slightly against the wind, and how pleased to be home, a slight smile playing on his lips (had Mycroft been thinking about him? About them?) He thought of how that smile had vanished, and the shoulders had straightened in the face of confrontation, tense and ready to retaliate.

The food was uneaten, cold, on the coffee table.

* * *

John was curled up on the couch, his face buried in the crook of his arm, the long sleeve of a cashmere jumper that Mycroft had given him slightly damp with salty tears. Mycroft's coat was clutched in the other hand, like a talisman to summon his lover back. The pale autumn sun played with his hair.

Mycroft sat in a café a few blocks down, nursing a warm cup of coffee, sleepless, mind still racing, picking apart the crucial five minutes that had caused them to spend their night separate. The coffee turned cold, and still he held on, inspecting his reflection in it, hoping to glean some answers from the dark elixir. Anthea was opposite him, his faithful assistant, typing on her Blackberry silently, leaving him to his thoughts. The sun bathed a small red box in warmth.

"You should return home, sir." Anthea said, softly.

Mycroft looked up, and gave her a weary, slightly sad smile, "I should indeed."

She turned her phone to him, and showed him the image of his living room. He let out a breath, "Oh, _John_."

* * *

The door opened, and Mycroft let himself in. He had expected himself to be angry, or bitter, or cold. He only felt tenderness and concern for the man sleeping on the couch. His footsteps were soft, made soundless by his socks. He knelt beside John, and gently moved his arm away, stroking that worn, tired, kindly face. His fingers were slightly tacky from the salt as he drew away. His heart clenched in him; until that moment, he had always thought the word "heart-wrenching" was simply an expression, but he felt it, and it hurt.

It hurt to have caused John so much pain.

It hurt to be separated from John. He had been so busy that he had forgotten John, and how John must have suffered in that month.

In that moment, he realized his mistake.

"Oh, John, I never wanted to cause you any pain." He whispered, holding his lover's hand, stroking his knuckles. "I love you, so very much." He pressed a kiss to his lover's forehead, and pulled away, heading into the kitchen and shutting the door.

* * *

John woke to the smell of bacon and eggs and sausages. He sat up with a jerk, looking wildly around, wondering if he was still dreaming. The coat slipped off his shoulders, and he clutched at it. His eyes fell on a pair of leather shoes by the door, and noticed the closed kitchen door. His lover was back.

Mycroft turned to find John leaning by the door, watching him. "I thought you were locked out." John said, his voice slightly hoarse.

Mycroft smiled, "I have a duplicate keycard in my office, John." He turned back and slid the eggs out of the pan, into the plates, then turned back to John as he toasted bread in the left over fat from the bacon.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft spoke, his voice suddenly soft. "I didn't realize how insensitive my actions were. Heaven knows how much anxiety I must have caused you over the past month."

John leaned against the door frame, silent, looking down.

"John –" Mycroft broke the silence, slightly desperate. Surely John understood –

"Your toast is burning." John huffed as he looked up. He entered the kitchen, and slapped Mycroft in the chest with his coat, "Go and shower, I'll re-do the toast."

Mycroft blinked, stumped, for the second time in twenty-four hours.

"Go." John urged, and kissed him, on the corner of his mouth. "Breakfast will be done in 5 minutes. You had better eat. " He was smiling for a moment, before he turned to scowl at the blackened toast, tossing it into the bin "Honestly, you both – completely inept in cooking."

Mycroft felt a rare grin spread across his face, as relief spread through him, before he turned to do as John had instructed. They weren't perfect, but Mycroft would never give up on this relationship, as long as it was in his power to keep this love burning bright.


	2. Turning Tables

**Title: **Love Songs - Turning Tables**  
**

**Disclaimer: **The usual. Sherlock belongs to BBC and ACD, I do not profit except for having lots of fun writing it.

**Pairings: **Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty

**Word Count: **3071

**Rating: **T **  
**

**Warnings: **None (Possible Reichenbach feels + excessive angst)**  
**

**Summary: **Love Songs is a series of one-shots depicting the relationships between different Sherlock characters and pairings. Each one-shot is based on a song. **  
**

**Author's Notes: **This one-shot is based on the song Turning Tables by Adele. This depicts the breakdown of the relationship between Sebastian and Jim, culminating in the scene in which Jim shoots himself. If you want a continuation in which Jim survives, let me know? I like to soften the angst, and I love happy endings.

* * *

The muted bark of a silenced gun sounded out, once, twice. The sound of reloading, the magazine sliding in with a click. Then a frenzy of shots.

Jim slid off his sunglasses, and strolled down the shooting range, heading immediately to Lane 6. That was Sebastian's lane, and none of his gunmen ever used it. The last one to try met a Moran in a bad mood, and was used as the target instead. That had been _messy_.

"Darling, darling_, darrrrrling_." Jim purred, sliding a hand down Sebastian's back to pat his arse. "What's got you in a strop today?"

Sebastian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and he squeezed off another shot, "Nothing, sir."

"Ah." Jim smiled, knowing exactly what was wrong. "Back to titles again, are we? I thought I told you," His fingers arched into claws- "to call me," -scratched down Sebastian's back- "Jim."

"I feel that we should-" A low growl escaped his throat," -Reestablish boundaries."

"What did I say about initiative, Sebastian?" Jim yanked hard on the man's shooting arm, turning him around. For a petite man, he had surprising strength.

Sebastian put his gun up as soon as he was yanked, not wanting to accidentally take out Jim's eye… or his brains. He leaned against the counter, where fresh magazines of bullets still sat. A click, safety engaged, and he set the gun down. "I don't quite recall." His voice was thick in disgust (or was it arousal?); Jim was dressed in a tight shirt and jeans that looked as though they were spray painted on. Instead of a pair of leather shoes, slightly scuffed sneakers peeked out from the jeans. "Been to Molly's then?" He deliberately made his voice casual.

"I said, initiative is my department, following orders is yours." Jim fisted a hand in Sebastian's crisp white shirt. The thing about Sebastian was that he looked so _normal_. Dirty blond hair that had recently been left to grow, and had a slight wave to them, green eyes (cat eyes, Jim thought giddily, this was a man who had taken on the characteristics of the very animal he loved to hunt), tall, solidly built (Jim longed to press against him, but this was a time for discipline. Play time was later), in a crisp white shirt and a pair of black pants, and leather shoes polished like obsidian. He was like any other man. "Also, do I detect a hint of _jealousyyyy_?"

"I'm not jealous." Sebastian said, turning away from Jim. The petite man hated being dismissed like that, in such a derisive manner. It made him feel like he was a small child being chided. It made him want to _beat_ Sebastian up. But he caught sight of that chiseled profile, and couldn't help but admire it. "I'm not jealous. I refuse to be a distraction."

He tugged Sebastian down, and whispered, "You're not a distraction, Moran. You are my priority." Their lips hovered millimeters away from each other, so close it looked like they were kissing, so close they could feel each other's heat-

Then Sebastian laughed, "Sherlock is your priority. I am a means to the end." His scorn poured over Jim, scalding. His hand covered Jim's, for a moment, gentle. Then he tugged the other off, and grabbed his gun, turning to leave. "To your credit, Jim, you lie in such a pretty manner. I was almost taken in."

He left Jim at the shooting range, knowing he would pay for it later, somehow.

Sebastian rubbed at his eye with a finger, staring at the wreckage that had been his flat. He rued the day he ever thought being Jim Moriarty's neighbor was a good idea. Jim had bought the entire floor, which consisted of two duplex penthouses, and had asked Sebastian to move in with him and occupy the other flat. Of course, Jim had a spare key to Sebastian's flat, and this time he had used it well.

The only things intact were his weapons. As a fellow predator, Jim would at least respect the importance of his tools. He ran a finger down the barrel of his trusty sniper rifle, then took a deep breath and turned around. Anything breakable was broken, anything that could be torn also was, and everything was somehow upside down.

Must not kill Moriarty, must not kill Moriarty.

He took another deep breath, and hung up his coat, beginning to put everything to rights again.

* * *

Sebastian always considered himself as having a very long fuse, in terms of temper ignition. As a sniper, one couldn't afford to be impatient, nor could one afford to be swayed by emotions. So when Jim thrashed his flat over and over, he just picked everything up, and Jim threw everything out, and he got brand new everything. When Jim decided to punch him or cause injury to him in any way, he bore with it and patched himself up and sometimes tried to give it as good as it got, so that they had matching bruises. Sebastian could put up with a lot of things.

But the last straw came with Jim's newest sniper. From tip to toe, he was exactly like Sebastian, but younger. Blonde hair in the familiar military cut, green eyes, hard and cold. And he dressed in suits like Sebastian never could.

The tension in the room was a choking, stifling heat. Even India's tropical jungles never felt anything this cloying, this hateful. Hunting tigers wasn't anything like facing your replacement.

And Jim – Jim just stood there with his smile, and said, "Sebastian, meet the newest member of your team. This is Jason."

And it had hurt. Sebastian could feel his throat close up, and that stabbing pain in his chest that was like that time that he got stabbed for Jim.

This was it, this was the end; Sebastian had finally been replaced, and he – He only fled.

The ex-colonel turned on his heel, and walked away. He slid into the car, pressing against the cool leather seats. He watched as the streets passed him, the people living out their silly, insignificant lives, never knowing the things that went on just a street away, just in the shadows. Crime organizations ran as smoothly as the government, sometimes even smoother, because no one dared offer an opinion counter to Jim's. Drugs being shipped in and out, millions worth of pounds being laundered every day, more money than the average person would see in their life time. He ran a finger along the shot glass of whisky that he poured himself, watching the amber liquid slide around in the glass as he tilted it to catch the light, wondering what it would have been like if he never got involved in all this. If he had just resigned himself to a mediocre fate being normal. He pushed his thoughts away, and swallowed the liquid, letting it burn its way down to his gut.

He was soon at their apartment, and climbed the stairs to the second level swiftly, his long legs making short work of the carpeted stairs as he bounded up. He entered his room, tearing off that collar and leash that was his tie, pulling off the shirt – He had hated it anyway. Off came the pants, and the shoes. Everything was strewn on the floor, like some bizarre remembrance of the moments of intimacy that they shared – they had shared. Sebastian reached into the back of his closet, and pulled on a t-shirt that was old, and that Jim always threatened to burn. The comfort of old, worn in cotton embraced him in the way the Jim never would – never could, and Sebastian wondered why he let himself change for that man.

For the sake of Love? Love was idiocy. It was an obvious flaw, a weakness to be exploited. Had Jim really loved him, as he often professed? Had he even loved Jim throughout these months? Or were they two lonely souls walking the dark path, drawn to each other's light and heat? Colliding in a brilliant moment of heat and warmth, and burning out, like a Wolf-Rayet star, never to be seen again?

In the grand scheme of things, he was inconsequential, a replaceable cog in the machine that was Moriarty.

Why had he been so stupid as to believe that he was – special? That he was something more? Right, _love_. All the pretty words, whispered in moments of passion, all the presents… the rarest sniper rifles money could buy, the apartment, the clothes. They had all formed part of Jim Moriarty's honey trap, and Sebastian let himself get caught, get seduced in a false sense of comfort and security. It had probably been planned down to its last detail, plans reiterated over and over in the genius' head, what to do when Sebastian said this, or did that, and contingencies for unpredicted moments (but nothing was ever unpredicted, humans had a limited range of actions and reactions after all, within their scope of comfort). Jim planned everything, keeping a beast in a gilded cage so that it was always sated, always drowsy with pleasure, and never rebelled.

Jim could have told him to jump, and Sebastian would have asked to which galaxy, and whether he wanted a souvenir on the way down. Not anymore.

The jeans were tugged on, and so were the old army boots. This was him, this was who he was. Suits and ties didn't make Sebastian Moran. His father had tried, society had tried. Jim had tried, and nearly succeeded, but this was him, jean and t-shirts, old boots, an old, tarnishing pair of ray-bans.

He went to Jim's side of the room, the side he never ventured to unless it was an emergency, and pulled open Jim's drawers. He pulled out his old army-tags, and slipped them on.

His first anniversary gift to Jim. He had nothing much to give then, just recently promoted. He hadn't wanted to use the money he earned. It was Jim's money after all, and besides, what could he buy with that money that Jim couldn't get double or triple of? It had been his way of saying, I belong to you.

And when Jim had removed it from the box, his dark eyes had lit up, and instead of his range of high pitched mania, of the low growl of his rage, Jim had said in a soft Irish lilt, made pronounced by emotion, "Thank you, Sebastian. It's a royal gift." Sebastian had turned red then, and muttered something in a gruff voice about having nothing better, having nothing that was his to give.

He now couldn't help but wonder if that was an act as well. How much emotion was truly there? Was Jim laughing at him, at his stupidity, at his plebian affections? Sebastian felt the cool weight of the tags against his skin, and pushed the doubts away. He didn't want to sully old memories… they were all that he had now.

They had been just three days shy of the second one, and Sebastian wished he could have made it to that point, at the very least. At least he would have given Jim a taste of a normal relationship. How maudlin of him.

His old gun came out of a safe, and he pulled out all the cash for his wallet except a fifty-pound note. He threw his credit cards down, and the bank account card that Jim had gotten for him.

This was what it was like, six years ago, down to his last fifty – desperate for something more.

He had gotten it, that something more, but he never realized how much of himself he had to sacrifice for that to happen, and how Sebastian would turn from tiger to tamed cat.

No more.

He left the room, striding out. No Jim.

It was testament to how much the other man didn't care about him; he didn't even bother to chase after him. Replaceable. Like his superiors had told him, "Moran, you are replaceable, every single one of us are replaceable. If you die here, some other poor sod will be sent out to take your position."

This was dying. This was the death of Sebastian Moran, Chief of Staff.

The death of Sebastian Moran, Jim's plaything.

It was a hollow victory. No more crazed grins, no more "Seb, look! I got you a heart, so kiss me", no late nights, no early (obscenely early) mornings. No brutal kisses, no desperate release of tension in the middle of the night, no commemorative bruises the day after.

He walked out.

* * *

Jim was stunned, when Sebastian suddenly turned and left.

The other man had been sullen for a long time, and Jim thought this would cheer him up, training some kid that was in the position he once was. Sebastian had a tender heart for someone so cold.

He didn't get it, and went about his day.

Emotions were so not his territory after all. Oh, he knew emotions, alright. He knew how to manipulate emotions, how to turn people to his favor. But he was almost as inept as everyone's favorite consulting detective when understanding how it applied to him.

But that night, when he returned to a dark apartment, he got an inkling that something hadn't been right.

There wasn't the telly on. No Sebastian to curl up to, and watch Doctor Who with. No Chinese take-outs on the table, slowly cooling, perfuming the air with promises of exotic places.

Jim tugged off his jacket and his tie slowly, rationalizing. Maybe Seb was just asleep in the room. He had a long day after all. He walked into the bedroom, and turned on the lights.

A white shirt lay on the floor like a dead thing. The leather shoes had been kicked off unceremoniously. The closet door was open, and Jim stuck his head inside.

The t-shirt and jeans were gone.

So was the boots.

Jim's hand flew to his lips. The fingers curled into a fist and he pressed it hard until teeth cut the sensitive flesh of the inside of his mouth. The roiling of emotions was so human- so detestable and boring.

He turned, and saw his drawer open, like a confession, the dog-tags missing. He whirled around, trying to find something – something to refute all his deductions, wanting for once to be wrong, Wrong, WRONG. He wanted to be stupid – wanted to have some hope.

The cards and money were there, and he cursed – Stupid, stupid, human Sebastian. He had too much pride, so much he thought he could survive on just a fifty-pound note. Jim closed his eyes, everything was too much. The damning evidence was everywhere. He was alone again.

He took out his phone, and texted it.

Sebastian, where have you gone? – JM

Get me dinner, I don't know where that food place is. – JM

Sebastian, this is urgent – JM

Sebastian, I miss you – No, he wouldn't resort to emotional pleas. He deleted that.

Three beeps sounded out, and Jim turned around to find Sebastian's phone on the bed.

He buried his face in the blankets.

* * *

The last time they met was because Sebastian couldn't stay away. London only offered so much for a man with fifty pounds, and Sebastian was getting tired of killing people for their wallets and their money. He was surprised that the Scotland Yard never caught up to the murders.

He was surprised that Sherlock never came running.

But then he was _dumb_; Jim's _moron_.

He only realized it when someone came to clear up the corpse, when Sebastian was slumped across from the body, half asleep, completely drunk.

He opened his eyes when he heard a sound; a life on the underbelly of London made you cautious at best after all. His gun pressed against a forehead and a familiar face turned. "Sir-!"

Sebastian only stared back. "Duncan- Why are you here?"

The other man just shook his head, and tugged the body off.

Jim must have sent him. He grabbed Duncan and pressed him for Jim's whereabouts the next day. He wasn't privy to those kinds of information anymore, after all. He had left his phone back at their – Jim's apartment.

He was going to tell Jim to fuck off out of his life, and leave him be. He didn't need this- this- whatever Jim was trying to do.

The next day, he was sitting opposite St Bart's.

He knew he wouldn't be allowed onto the stage that Jim was playing on, so he took the next best option, a building directly opposite.

He saw Jim and Sherlock. They never saw him, players so immersed in their play that they had blocked out the entire world. The lines delivered so perfectly that no one would ever be able to guess that there hadn't been a rehearsal, and nor would there be a reenactment. He could almost hear Jim taunting Sherlock, bringing out the worst in him, coaxing it out, patiently.

He witnessed Jim taking out the gun, and he bolted to his feet; never mind that he was giving out the position of his – not his anymore, Jim's – team of snipers.

Never mind that he wasn't supposed to be there.

Never mind that he was interrupting Jim's best performance ever; his swan song.

And he was screaming, "NO, STOP- STOP-! JIM, STOP IT! JIM, I LOVE YOU!"

Jim never heard. The wind carried his voice away, snatching away the last words he would speak to this man who never would – never could embrace him like a normal person.

This man who he realized he needed, that he craved.

This man who was there for him at his lowest, and spiraled him up to new heights.

This man who watched crap telly with him, and fell asleep on him, and punched him and kissed him.

"JIM!"

The other man saw him, and Sebastian thought – imagined, hallucinated – that just for one second there were tears.

But there was definitely a smile, and a bang. And as Jim Moriarty went down, so did Sebastian Moran.

He collapsed, face drawn and white, and tears spilling onto the dusty concrete, whispering over and over like a mantra, "Jim- Jim- Jim-"

He had been right after all. He was a means to an end, and Sherlock- Sherlock was the priority.

Jim.


	3. Skinny Love

**Title: **Love Songs - Skinny Love**  
**

**Disclaimer: **The usual. Sherlock belongs to BBC and ACD, I do not profit except for having lots of fun writing it.

**Pairings: **Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty

**Word Count: **2176

**Rating: **T **  
**

**Warnings: **None **  
**

**Summary: **Love Songs is a series of one-shots depicting the relationships between different Sherlock characters and pairings. Each one-shot is based on a song. **  
**

**Author's Notes: **This is a continuation of the previous chapter, Turning Tables, so this is MorMor again, and it all gets better, I promise! This chapter is dedicated to **AnakinSparta**, and **Aliens Made of** **Jelly**, because they made me want to continue it. I hope you both enjoy it!

It took me such a long time to write it out, because of the hospital scene. The first attempt was too OOC and emotional for Sebastian, but this is better, I think.

* * *

Sebastian Moran stood outside Jim's hospital room. While others were hunched over in tears and worry, Sebastian stood tall, military posture etched in his person, keeping his vigil.

Crucial, they had told him.

This night was crucial for Jim.

Sebastian's lapis lazuli blue eyes hardly left the monitors, a series of different colored lines racing across the screen.

He had been Catholic, once.

It was a very long time ago, before he killed, before he was packed off to the army, before he was a disappointment.

Days in church were a distant memory, faded to pastels and his mother's dress, her pearls, and his father's suit and shiny leather shoes. He had been very small, and very blonde, his hair in an adorable cut, dressed in a little sailor suit, his own tiny shoes as polished as his father's own.

Then they went to Iran. His father was a very important man, an ambassador, and everything changed. From cool, rainy weather, he was thrown into an arid desert, where the sun blazed hotly. Pastels were made stark, and he was sent to school, where he learned Arabic and Farsi and remembered Persian poetry. Rumi had been a firm favorite of his.

The prayers fell easily from his lips as though he never lapsed from religion, never turned atheist after the first person lay dead, reduced to corpse, blood and brains. There was nothing holy about a dead body.

Nothing holy about humanity.

Sebastian thought of his mother, and how it crushed his father as she wasted away from cancer. How it changed him irrevocably and made him withdraw, too afraid of grief to love his own son.

Grief is the price we pay for love.

He was in Afghanistan when the Queen's speech to the September 11th survivors was televised. He had scoffed at it, but it stuck to his mind like shrapnel and blood and death.

"Mother." He whispered. "Mother, if you are in heaven." Fuck, he felt like an idiot.

"Mother, please- Jim- He-" He pressed a fist to the thin glass panel, rested his burning forehead to the ice-cold glass.

"Please, let him be fine." He gasped out, closing his eyes tightly.

Praying, speaking to an absent god, to an absent mother. A quarter of a century of distance lay between him and salvation, him and love. "Please, let Jim wake up, I can't live without him."

I can't live without him.

"I love him." His voice was a choked rasp, throat tight as though he might suffocate on his fear and grief. "I love him. He's the only one I've loved since – since twenty-five years ago. Mother, please."

Jim made it through the night. Morning found Sebastian Moran sat on the floor, knees folded, and hands clasped above his head, as though he had fallen asleep praying.

* * *

After the wounds had healed to an extent that an infection wouldn't be deadly, Sebastian was given the green light to sit in with Jim.

Sebastian didn't have anything to do, really. He didn't have to buy food to cater to Jim's exceedingly fussy palate. He didn't have Jim to bicker with, and pretend to be angry with. He didn't have anyone to kill. He didn't have anything.

So Sebastian found himself rediscovering an old hobby.

Books. He brought novels into the hospital room, and read them. Sometimes he read them out loud, even though Jim wasn't likely to hear him. Most of the time he read silently, his chair parallel to Jim's bed, their hands slotted together, as he waited for Jim to wake.

In that period of time, Sebastian lost himself in worlds of imagination, bathed in morning sunlight, then by the artificial florescent glow of the hospital lights. For hours he could just pretend that Jim was asleep, not fighting for his life.

He could pretend that they were normal. Jim would be a mathematics professor, or maybe an astrophysicist. Sebastian would be a literature professor, or a publisher. A different world where Jim wasn't dying and Sebastian wasn't a traumatized wreck.

He was traumatized. He couldn't sleep. He saw Jim whenever he closed his eyes, heard the report of the gun. He probably would never hold another gun again.

Not after seeing Jim blow his brains out.

And suddenly all the corpses weren't just blood and bodies and brains. They were people. People who had families, had lovers that maybe loved them as much as he loved Jim. Loved desperately, loved obsessively , loved in a beautiful excruciating poignant way.

Everything dies.

Sebastian just didn't want to let go, after all.

Sometimes he wondered if it was some sick divine retribution. Jim was the criminal mastermind who couldn't think. Sebastian was the sniper who couldn't shoot. There was something beautiful and ironic and twisted about it all.

* * *

Whenever he finally closed his eyes (sometimes it was 5 am, other times it was 8 am), he wondered if the next time he opened his eyes would be the time when Jim would be awake.

Maybe in a disgusted manner at how Sebastian was holding Jim's hand tightly, the chain of his dog-tags would around both their hands to keep them bound.

Maybe in anger at how Sebastian still dared to come crawling back after deserting Jim; "No one walks away from me, Sebastian."

But it was the cold of the dog-tags and a warm hand stroking his hair that woke him. When he opened his eyes, Jim was watching him.

It was like it always had been, Jim awake first, Sebastian lounging in until noon (or when Jim finally lost his patience).

Jim's voice was cracked with disuse, but his syllables were clear enough. "Mor-on."

Sebastian smiled, and he said softly, "_If I was not so pitifully in love__, __I wouldn't then be standing at your door.__Don't say, "Go away, don't stand at my door!"__I wouldn't exist, __my dear, if I didn't stand here._"

"Rumi. Persian poetry." Jim murmured, and shifted. Brown eyes regarded blue, and Jim said, "Get me a glass of water."

Sebastian smiled, and stood, tension draining from him.

* * *

They lived for a period of time closeted from the world, Jim still manipulating the threads of his web to keep Sherlock busy and away from them, but not in a discernible way to the other genius. Jim let it slowly crumble, directing things from his bed, dressed in pajamas and curled up with Sebastian. The web had served its purpose, letting Jim challenge Sherlock and he was now bored of it, every bit as disdainful of the criminals he was forced to deal with as Sherlock was.

They were all so simple.

Sebastian stroked his hand gently with a thumb, and Jim knew he was nervous. "Spit it out, Sebastian." He said, then snorted, "You don't have to keep swallowing." His lips quirked into a bit of a smile at the innuendo.

"I can't- I can't shoot anymore." Sebastian said. Jim rolled his eyes, sighing. He had known. He had known for a long time. The Sebastian of old had been obsessive with his weapons, unable to go without polishing his guns or shooting for more than a week.

It had been months, and the revolver by their bedside was covered in a fine layer of dust.

"I know." Jim said, squeezing Sebastian's hand. "Don't be obvious."

Sebastian nodded, and silence descended again.

* * *

It took Jim a while to start walking, his muscles all atrophied from disuse during his coma and recuperation. But when he did walk, he took off running. Suddenly there was a name change. Suddenly there were new jobs. Suddenly there was a new house. Suddenly a new life. Jim was pulling on all his contacts to give them a brand new start.

"We've got new identities." Jim announced one evening, when Sebastian was doling out pasta. Sebastian had gotten rather good at cooking, thanks to Jim's picky palate and unceasing criticism.

The other man froze, then said calmly, "Let's have it then. What are we up to now?"

"James Allister." He gestured to himself, and pointed his fork at Sebastian, "Sebastian Allister."

"Oh, is it?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "And what's the relationship?"

"Boring, Sebastian. We've been married seven years, of course." Jim said, lazily. Sebastian felt his heart stutter a little. Seven years- That means they had been "married" the entire time that they knew each other.

What the bloody hell.

"Right. Occupations?" Sebastian added more cheese to Jim's pasta, knowing the other liked it that way. He could barely keep the silly grin off his face.

"James is a professor in computer science of course, specialization in ethical hacking." Jim's eyes gleamed with humor, and continued, "Sebastian is fresh back from army and doing further studies on Literature."

Sebastian laughed. "Alright, where are we going?"

"Hmm, North, I'm afraid. Leeds University." Jim said, starting on his meal. "Tiny little flat in the campus, not much. We have money, but sometimes it's best not to be conspicuous."

Sebastian nodded. It was a crazy plan, to start an entirely new life, leaving everything behind. He had first known Jim as the entity named Moriarty, and now they were left with Jim and Sebastian, instead of Moriarty and Moran.

* * *

"Moron!" Jim yelled from the kitchen where he was sitting, cross-legged, typing irritably at his laptop.

"Shit, Jim, why do you always call me that?" Sebastian emerged from the study, where he was holed up with his books, stretching, a leather book held in his hand.

"Because that's who you are." Jim said, a thin rimless pair of glasses perched on his nose as he scowled at the screen. "Moron."

"Yeah? What do you want now, genius?" Sebastian said, tossing the book and catching it, lazily. A year and half after Jim had woken from his coma, they were now a year into their new, married life. It was idyllic, relaxing.

Sebastian would even call it therapeutic. The nightmares and the wounds were faded away into the monotony of university life. Even his dreams of war and hunting became less frequent, and his temper mellowed. Jim even slept regular hours now, though his regular hours were something like 2 am to 6 am. Still, Sebastian couldn't complain.

Just a week ago he picked up his old gun, cleaned it, polished it, and fired off some rounds.

Jim knew, of course. He had known the instant Sebastian returned, reeking of gunpowder, hand stained with the residue, his posture straight and proud, and a smile on his face.

"Welcome home, tiger." He had said, and left it at that.

Three days ago, Jim's old phone (the one he had used for his "job") came alive in the middle of the night with a soft tune that was familiar. The Scissor Sisters' I Can't Decide, the ringtone that Jim had programmed for John's RSS feed.

Sebastian had reached to turn it off, but hazel eyes met blue, and they both froze.

James Allister never stood a chance. That façade was instantly crumbling, and Jim's eyes gleamed, wild and fierce. Sebastian grabbed the phone, handing it over, and said simply, "Here, Boss."

Jim kissed him on the tip of his nose, purring, "Good boy."

"Moron, look." Jim said, drawing his attention back to the present, pointing to the screen, taking off his glasses. The book stopped in its movement, before Sebastian leaned over Jim's shoulder.

Sherlock Holmes was alive. They had always known of course, but the prey had resurfaced.

Sebastian felt the burn of adrenaline through his veins, and the hunter woke.

"What do you think?" Jim asked, looking up at him. His eyes weren't crazed and wild like the sleepless, maniacal Moriarty. The fact that Sebastian was being asked was evidence of huge change in their dynamics.

Sebastian looked at Jim and images flickered through his mind of a body swamped in the white of a hospital bed, and prayers that probably wouldn't work twice. He tamped down on the hunter.

"I rather like being married." His voice was bland. "And you're awful to work with. I also have a report to finish by next week, if I don't want to be thrown out of your Bee-Eff-Eff's office." The literature professor had struck up a friendship with Jim, and Sebastian teased Jim endlessly for it. "Settle down, we're playing a new game now, and I'm comfortable in it." His hand rested warm on Jim's lower back, and he leaned down to give Jim a kiss. "Besides, I actually hate London."

"Lazy beast." Jim said lazily, and the glasses went on. The website closed, lines upon line of computer codes replacing it. "Don't know why I keep you around, Moran. Must be because I love you so."

Sebastian looked down with a smile, then glanced up and said, "Through having only eyes for you I fear to lose, I lose to keep, and choose Tamer as prey." He scooped up the book, and returned to the study to struggle with his thesis.


End file.
